


Aziraphale, who worries too much and not enough

by Flowerbed_Owl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), and the specifics of that are up to you, but it can be read as anything including and inbetween romantic and platonic, quite extraordinary amounts of hurt/comfort, the license is I'm not straight, there is only one thing that is certain: they are idiots and they love each other, this has 1 mention of vague Feelings, too many descriptions of gazes and eyes but I have a license for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerbed_Owl/pseuds/Flowerbed_Owl
Summary: Even though the both of them are disasters in their own right, it's surprisingly Crowley who knows how to better cope with such dreadful things as emotions.





	Aziraphale, who worries too much and not enough

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely inspired by untrustworthyglitch's gorgeous writing, so check them out with that username on here or at crowleyspraisekink on tumblr!

For all his flair for the dramatics, Crowley really does feel and suffer every emotion through and through. He can’t help it; the Fall didn’t burn away his soul, and he wouldn’t have asked questions in the first place if he didn’t care deeply. So he cares, and he hurts, over and over. Even if he doesn't particularly appreciate or enjoy it, over the course of six thousand-some years, he finds a few things that can help. Maybe sleeping away a whole century or drinking for a week isn't exactly _productive_ , but he's a demon, he can allow himself a little sloth; and besides, eventually, he finds other ways to cope. He goes through rage, or hopelessness, or yearning again and again, but maybe he gets better at it each time around, because there’s nothing else left for him to do.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, prefers the easier approach - pushing everything as far down as he can and locking it there to rest. He’s an angel, a perfect being, capable of all-encompassing love and definitely not of something as undistinguished as anxiety. So he plays his role and he casts aside anything that wouldn’t fit. The doubts about the Almighty that he isn't _quite_ sure are the work of the enemy, and the dangerous nature of their Arrangement, not to mention the terrifying feelings that have wormed, or, more appropriately, snaked their way into his heart as of late all sort of mingle together in one frightening mass of emotion, locked away to the best of his ability. Wrestle it down, put on a polite smile, still feel it somewhere deep inside and stumble over your words but don't falter - that was the usual order of his operations.

And maybe that worked well enough when he had head office to keep him busy, when he always had more important things to worry about and to remind him that he _can't_ and he _shouldn't_ feel this way, but now, after the apocalypse that wasn’t, after heaven and hell have abandoned them, he was free. And as it turns out, freedom was a terrifying, overwhelming thing; he has nothing to worry about anymore, and that means he has so impossibly much.

Here he sits now, _free_ , unbound by any rules. But he can’t quite breathe like he’s supposed to, and he doesn’t really see anything, though his eyes are fixed on something nearby. He's on _his_ side, but what good is being on your own side when you're drowning, and your lungs fill up with dread, and-

Ah. He misspoke. He's on _their_ side, and Crowley's voice breaks through the surface of the water to remind him of that.

"Aziraphale?"

The angel blinks and sees his face, all heed and concern, and he doesn't know why he suddenly and intensely wants to cry. He doesn't plan on Crowley noticing the hitch in his breath as he swallows hard to keep the tears from coming, but he hasn't had a great history of Plans working out in his favor.

"Oh, no, none of that," Crowley insists with a grimace, and his hands find their place lightly brushing Aziraphale's face and lifting it up to look into his eyes.

"Sorry, my dear, I must have gotten distracted," he perks his voice up and tries to brush it off, but his eyes glisten more than usual, and Crowley isn't even considering buying it.

"None of that," he repeats, quieter this time, and his gaze doesn't stray from Aziraphale's. "You don't- don't hide it, don't keep it down," he urges, and Aziraphale wants to open his mouth to refuse, but it's so hard to continue holding himself together, and letting someone else tell him what to do is the most merciful thing he can allow himself.

He closes his eyes, exhales, and the tears start running. And without thinking, he leans forward.

Crowley catches him the rest of the way as if he’s been doing it for centuries, and he puts his arms around him, and Aziraphale buries his face in the demon's shoulder. And, hell, he stops trying to control his breathing, and his lungs fill with cold air and he holds onto Crowley's jacket so that he doesn't disappear. The tears just keep coming and he can't tell if the wretched, precious feeling he's experiencing is terror, relief, or both at once.

"I'm just going to have to hope that'sss not holy water," Crowley quips softly, and Aziraphale laughs through the decidedly not holy tears. He's going to feel very guilty about ruining Crowley's clothes later, but right now, he can't think about much of anything. Nevertheless, he hears the comforting shuffling of feathers as Crowley’s wings materialize, and one of them reaches out to cover him.

And maybe he's been underwater for too long, because after a while, his breathing slows down and his words stop catching in his throat.

It takes him a moment once he's calmed down, but he pulls himself up and glances up at Crowley, and if it was anyone else he'd be worried of finding judgement or condescension, but he's relieved, not surprised, when he sees only care. He can't hold Crowley's serpentine gaze, not yet, so he looks off to the side. Crowley folds his wings behind him.

"What if they find us, Crowley?" he says, _and what if they don't,_ he doesn't. He contradicts himself, wanting and not wanting, when either choice is both heaven and hell in its own regard.

"Then we figure it out, and we fight them, and we win," Crowley says simply, but Aziraphale gets the impression that the confidence is there for his sake and not Crowley's. Crowley must notice the subtle furrow in his brow and the way his lips purse, because he quickly amends, "Okay, okay, it's not that easy. But we've done this before, and, angel, there's no way in heaven I'm losing you again."

Aziraphale swiftly looks back up at him, and Crowley almost seems puzzled by such a reaction - as if he assumed he was just casually stating a fact.

Maybe, Aziraphale realises with awe, he was.

"I suppose you're right," he concedes with a sigh and fumbles with his hands, but the unspoken part of his question still scares him. He knows what to expect if their higher ups come calling again and he gets captured and cast into hellfire, or if they have to fight them off again, instead, but he has no reference for the rest of forever, unbound by the rules and expectations he’s grown so accustomed to.

There’s a moment of silence before Crowley asks, flatly, “What?” The angel – well, if he was still considered one, anyway – turns to face him, confused. “That’s not what you’re scared of. What is it?” Crowley is the one leaning forward, now, and his eyebrows are raised in a silent question.

Aziraphale wonders how he can tell what he’s thinking so easily – has he always been this easy to read? Did Heaven not notice, or did they just not care? With that thought, he suddenly feels very warm towards Crowley, and if demons could sense love, his radar would be going off right about now.

Aziraphale looks at him and knows he undoubtedly deserves _some_ kind of answer, and he opens his mouth to find it. Instead, the truth comes spilling out and he’s spiraling again, without even realising what he’s doing. “What if they _don’t_ find us? What if it’s just freedom, forever, and there’s nothing certain there? How am I supposed to… to know what I _am_ anymore, for God’s sake!”

The last words seem to almost hang in the air for a moment, caught in a half-shout.

He becomes aware of what he’s done, and he immediately feels very cold once again. There’s silence, and he doesn’t want to look at Crowley. This is that same old argument, of who’s on what side, and Crowley has made it abundantly clear that they’re on _their_ side, so why can’t he just accept that already and stop coming back to this? Won’t Crowley grow tired of him constantly questioning it, and hasn’t he already?

But, against all odds earthly and otherworldly, he hears the sound of rustling feathers once again. He doesn’t want to look up, not until he feels the weight of a wing resting on his back. Crowley’s eyes, he notes, are as bright and hypnotic as always.

“Angel, you’re-” Crowley cuts himself off with a wave of his hand, “– okay, bad choice of words – but you’re _you_! You’re Aziraphale, who gives away his flaming sword and who almost gets himself dissscorporated because he wanted _crepes_ , who practices magic tricks – _fake_ magic tricks – because they’re _fun_ , who dances the gavotte and who opens a bookshop and gets offended when someone actually tries to buy a book. It doesn’t matter _what_ you are, not to anybody with a lick of sense.” Somewhere in the middle of that sentence, Aziraphale’s hands have ended up in Crowley’s, who is now looking at him desperately and with wild, fervid hope.

Aziraphale can’t say anything, and if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say. Having no definition to stick to, being _himself_ and no one and nothing else is terrifying; but when Crowley makes it sound like something wondrous and admirable, and when he manages to do that same thing while being, well, _Crowley_ , he feels just a little bit brave.

“For the record, magic tricks aren’t _fake_ , they’re _supposed_ to be a demonstration of sleight of hand.” He manages to force some humor into his voice when he regains the ability to speak. He feels exhausted, but he isn’t full of dread anymore. For once, he doesn’t have to bleed himself dry locking up everything that’s left.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he finally speaks, “you truly _are_ one of a kind. If I’m going to be stuck here… if I’m going to be _free_ here, rather, I’m glad it’s with you.” His voice is tired, and soft, and beautiful.

Crowley’s expression softens in turn, eyes growing gold and narrow, and then he pauses, and then he replies with a not-insincere grin.

“And the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

Aziraphale pretends to be deeply offended and shakes his head incredulously, though it comes off as a lot more fond. Crowley doesn’t seem to have any plans to move his wings. Aziraphale lets out a half-humorous, half-exasperated sigh. “For all the humanly pleasures I’ve grown fond of, I’ve never quite mastered the emotions. Finicky things, they are.” He, in turn, doesn’t remove his hands from Crowley’s grip.

Crowley nods in agreement and tilts his head. “They’re quite annoying. Wish they invented more of the good ones, if you ask me.” He leans back on the couch, pulling Aziraphale with him. “Happiness Two, anyone? Excitement, a little bit to the left?”

Aziraphale mulls over it for a moment before proposing “satisfaction, but turned up to 11”, of which Crowley approves. They come up with a lot of new feelings, and even a few new words, when the drowsiness overtakes them and they start to lose sense. And maybe it’s because the sun is starting to rise again, or because the power of suggestion is just that strong, but Aziraphale thinks he is experiencing “hope, new and improved” when they inevitably fall asleep, tangled in a mess of wings and limbs, as the sunlight drips through the curtains.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wanted to put Crowley's whole "aziraphale, who" monologue in (parenthesis) in the middle of the title, but that would have been incomprehensible, so I had to make some sacrifices


End file.
